Rooftops of Tehran (32 page)

After a few seconds, Zari’s mother grabs my shoulders and gently pushes me away from her to gaze into my teary eyes. I recognize traces of Zari’s features in her kind, sorrow-worn face. Underneath the veil of grief I can see the blue eyes, the well-shaped chin, the lovely cheekbones.

Zari’s mother wipes the tears from my face with her fingers and tells me to be courageous. “You’re too young to harbor a pain like this in your heart for too long,” she says. “My dear, dear boy, I wish you knew how I feel about you and about what you were doing for my dear Zari.” I nod while remembering the night she saw her daughter in my arms up on the roof.

“You need to let go of the past, and focus on the future,” Mrs. Naderi says. She hugs me again, and whispers, “I know you’re strong enough to move on. Leave this country as you promised Zari you would. You need to go to the States and get a college education, because only educated people can save this country. While there, tell every American what their government’s senseless support of a dictator has done to the Iranian mothers. Tell them that there will be no end to these atrocities until they stop paying for our oil with the blood of our children. Promise me that you will do your part toward emancipating our people, because you owe it to Doctor and Zari.”

I nod yes, but I’m not sure in my heart that I can ever leave this alley. After Zari, what does it matter if I have an education? How can I go to the United States, the country that has supported the man responsible for the death of my angel?

We walk past the cherry tree and enter the house. On the way to the living room I notice that there are a number of boxes in the hallway. “Are you moving?” I ask Mrs. Naderi.

“Not for a while, but not a day too soon,” she says. “You can imagine how difficult it’s been for us to continue living in this house.”

The thought of another family occupying the house in which my Zari lived fills me with pain.

The living room is exactly the way I remember it from the night of Keivan’s party. The picture of Zari and Doctor is still on the shelf. We almost kissed looking at that picture. I try to peel my eyes away from the shelf before I burst into tears.

The floor is covered with an inexpensive Kashan rug. There are large cylindrical pillows around the room on small Turkmen sitting mats. A steaming samovar is in one corner of the room, a teakettle on top of it. Six small old Persian teacups with worn-out gold rings around their bases are set on a brass tray next to a neat pile of matching saucers. The smell of the freshly brewed tea makes the room feel cozy and warm.

Zari’s mother pours us tea from the samovar as Mr. Naderi smokes his cigarette quietly. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the Masked Angel in the hallway whispering something in Keivan’s ear. Zari’s mother waves at Keivan and says, “Come here, honey. Come say hello to our guests.”

Keivan walks up to me. Zari’s mother prompts, “Say hello, dear.”

Keivan says hello and hugs me, clasping his little arms firmly around my neck. I hug him back and whisper in his ear that I missed him. He says he missed me, too, and then he turns around and looks at the Masked Angel in the hallway, who’s preparing a tray of sweets. Keivan sits next to me and places his elbow on his thigh and his hand under his chin. I put my arm around him and squeeze his shoulders a couple of times. Zari’s mother smiles and says that Keivan has been a great help to Cousin Soraya while his poor, heartbroken mother was dealing with pain no mother should ever have to deal with. Keivan shrugs his shoulders and smiles, understanding that his mother is paying him a compliment.

“Children are the most precious things in the world, if you ask me,” Zari’s mother says. Then she turns her head toward the ceiling and begs God not to ever deprive any parent of the joy of raising their kids.

I want to ask why she’s praying to a God who robbed her of her child, why she hasn’t boycotted him, written him off. I remember the night on the roof when I told my father that God wasn’t fair because he never reacted to those who committed atrocities against humanity, especially the young. That night Zari was sitting beneath the short wall, listening to us. I look at her picture on the shelf and feel the muscles around my heart tighten up. I want to scream and pull on my skin to free up some room for the pain that is bloating me.

Mrs. Naderi starts to talk about Doctor’s family. “His mother is now in an institution with no prospect of recovering from her mental illness,” she says. “His father died a couple of months ago; God bless his soul. He was the lucky one, if you ask me. It’s not a good thing to outlive your own child. Nothing is more painful, nothing. The last few months he wasn’t really living, he was just breathing. Death is a blessing at a time like that.” Mrs. Naderi shakes her head and wipes the tears from her face.

The Masked Angel enters the room carrying a tray full of sweets. She whispers hello, and Ahmed, Faheemeh, and I get up to greet her. She points to us, and with a gesture of her hand pleads with us to sit down as she and Faheemeh hug and exchange pleasantries. She whispers so quietly that I have a hard time hearing her.

Mr. Naderi smiles as the Masked Angel sits down on a pillow only a few centimeters away from him. He whispers something to her, and she shakes her head no. Then he looks at me. I wish I knew what just passed between them.

Mr. Naderi’s silence is certainly odd, and uncharacteristic of the talkative, somewhat philosophical man I once knew. He has always been a kind man, gifted with a gentle soul and cursed with a rugged face that looks anything but friendly. The hardship he has endured has not marred his Olympian body, and he still looks like a formidable wrestling champion, with broken ears and a face that has been rubbed into the mat a few too many times. He and my father used to talk about their matches and opponents in great detail. I always enjoyed Mr. Naderi’s exciting stories told in his deep, scratchy voice. What a stark contrast his present demeanor is to the happy-go-lucky ex-champion of a few months ago!

Zari’s mother says that the Masked Angel has been struggling with a bad cold that won’t go away. “The poor thing has lost her voice, and coughs all night long. She has to see a doctor,” she says. “But the young are too stubborn, and think they can overcome everything. God bless her, there isn’t a day that I don’t burn
espand
for her to keep the evil spirits away! I don’t know what we would have done without her.”

I can tell from the movement of the Masked Angel’s eyes behind the little holes in her burqa that she is looking at me. This is the first time she has seen me up close. She must be curious about the boy her best friend and cousin fell in love with. I sense a distinct nervousness in her demeanor. I would almost swear that she is shaking under her veil. Mr. Naderi whispers something to her again, and she whispers back.

They must be very close
. She must be filling the void that Zari’s death has left in his life. The poor man adored his daughter, always referring to her as his reason for living. She was the center of his universe, the sun that brightened his days and the moon that lit his dark nights. In the evenings, when he came home from work, Zari ran up to the door and clasped her arms around his muscular neck to embrace him, and that was enough to make him feel rested and at peace. And on Friday afternoons, Zari brought him tea in the yard as he sat by the
hose
in the shadow of the cherry tree and read the newspaper. He always talked about his dreams of having grandchildren. “Two grandsons,” he would say. “I’ll teach them how to wrestle and carry on the family tradition. Wrestling is the best sport in the world!”

And now the two people who could have fulfilled his dreams are gone. Maybe the Masked Angel can someday give him an experience close to what he would have had with Zari.

Mrs. Naderi repeats that Soraya has been the pillar that has kept the family from collapsing. “Dear God, never deprive anyone of the joy of raising their child,” she prays again, “and damn the Devil of the Middle East, the servant of the West, and the destroyer of young lives.”

We all hang our heads in silence. Then Mr. Naderi sighs and lights up another cigarette. Brokenhearted over the outlook of someone else occupying their house, I ask, “May I ask where you’re moving to?”

“To Bandar Abbas.”

My heart sinks. The government exiles its unruly employees to Bandar Abbas, a town on the Persian Gulf famous for its intolerable heat and humidity.

“Why Bandar Abbas?” Ahmed asks.

Mrs. Naderi looks at her husband, but doesn’t say anything. “Who would ever forget Zari if her family continued to live in this alley?” I answer gently, although I’m furious at the thought of them in exile.

Ahmed suddenly gets it. He seems embarrassed by his question.

“But the SAVAK is wrong,” I say. “No one will ever forget her anyway. Not her and not Doctor. People in this country don’t forget and never forgive.”

Mr. Naderi’s eyes fill. His pain-worn eyes are frozen on me as he puts out his cigarette and lights another.

I wish I had the courage to tell them about myself and Zari, but love is a private matter, and the vault of the heart is not to be opened lightly, nor the treasure of love exposed. I always wondered why, despite our passionate spirit as a nation whose poetry is filled with declarations of love, our reality is one of guarded emotions when it comes to members of the opposite sex. Although Mrs. Naderi saw Zari and me in each other’s arms, she will never talk about it, and neither will I. It doesn’t matter that their daughter was the center of my universe, or that I have grieved her loss every waking moment of the last few months. Some things must remain sealed in the cage of the soul.

I look toward the Masked Angel, and realize that she is still looking at me. Her eyes blink fast behind the dark lace panel in the front of her burqa—eyes that remind me of the eyes of my own angel, except that they don’t smile like hers.

We sit in that room for hours without saying much, taking refuge and comfort in the fact that we share a common pain. And for the first time since Doctor’s death, we are able to mourn together.

The Eyes of an Angel

The weather is unusually warm and springlike for this time of year, the middle of
Esphand
, the end of February, but my mother insists that I wear warm winter clothes when I go out. “This weather can turn on you without notice,” she says. “It’s warm one minute and then suddenly it starts to snow.” She brings out a bottle of herbal juice from her medicine cabinet and insists that I swallow two full teaspoons of it. “This will boost your immune system, which has been weakened in the last few months.”

It’s good to know some things never change
.

The whole world has heard that I’m out of the hospital, and they all want to see me. Everyone has decided to come for a visit at the end of this week. My mother is busy preparing the house. She dusts, sweeps, washes the sheets, and tries to figure out where everyone will sleep and what she will serve for every meal. She names the guests without counting them: “Mr. and Mrs. Kasravi, your two aunts and two uncles, Mrs. Mehrbaan, and your grandparents from your father’s side—however many that is.”

“That’s nine,” my father says.

“Don’t count! Don’t you know it’s inauspicious to count people?” she scolds, a concerned look on her face.

“Why?” my father asks, shaking his head in exasperation.

“I don’t know. It just is.” Then she turns to me and says, “They’re all coming to see you, aren’t you excited?”

“I am,” I say. But I wish I knew why people feel they need to visit someone who’s sick. When I’m not feeling well, the last thing I need is people telling me that I look good, and that all will be okay. The forced smiles and laughter will drive me insane.

My father seems unusually agitated and restless. He follows my mother around without helping her, and I can tell he’s getting on her nerves.

“Do we have enough vodka?” he asks at least three times. “There’ll be a lot of drinking and celebrating tonight. We’ll all be drinking, including Pasha.”

I remember the last time I drank vodka—the night of Doctor’s funeral—and the idea doesn’t strike me as celebratory.

Mother says, “Yes, there is plenty of vodka.”

“Is Mrs. Mehrbaan coming?” he frets.

“Yes, I told you that already.”

“Did you talk to her personally?”

She gives my father a dirty look.

“Did she say she is coming for sure, or that she would think about it?”

My mother turns around, looks at my father and starts to say something, but decides against it. Instead she throws her arms up in the air, mumbles something under her breath, and walks away. I wonder why my father is so concerned about Mrs. Mehrbaan.

“Okay then, I’m going to check to make sure we have enough vodka,” my father says, as he walks toward the refrigerator.

 

My paternal aunts, uncles, and grandparents arrive a few minutes before noon. They hug me, kiss me, and tell me how glad they are that I’m home again. They say I look great and that I will soon look even better, thanks to my mother’s superb cooking.

All my aunts and uncles are in their thirties, but only my aunt Mateen is married. She is the largest woman in our family, and the kindest woman on the planet. Her first husband died tragically four years after they were married in a head-on accident on a pilgrimage to Imam Reza’s mausoleum. Aunt Mateen was single for ten years, but eventually fell in love again and married Mr. Jamshidi, a middle-aged man who owns a dairy factory in the northeastern city of Mashhad. One year after their wedding, she found out that Mr. Jamshidi was already married. She cried day and night, threatened to kill him, asked him for a divorce, and even locked him out of the house for a few days. Eventually, however, she decided that being married to a bigamist was not so bad, as long as he loved her, respected her, and was faithful to her. So Aunt Mateen told Mr. Jamshidi that if she ever caught him with his first wife, she would circumcise him, little by little, until he was little more than a eunuch. Everyone in the family says that Mr. Jamshidi is the most faithful man on the planet, not because he doesn’t like women, but because he knows my aunt is a serious lady with extremely sharp knives in her kitchen cabinet.